


a thousand paper suns

by wordstruck



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 02:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11152626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/wordstruck
Summary: After a moment, without looking up, Oikawa laces their fingers together.Iwaizumi looks back up at the ceiling, at the now-faded glow-in-the-dark stars. Oikawa’s hand is calloused and rough. Iwaizumi thinks of how long he’s stood by this boy, so beautiful and bright, so much more than even a thousand of Iwaizumi’s paper suns. Where their palms touch, there is a warmth Iwaizumi has known his whole lifetime.Or, in which Iwaizumi and Oikawa grow up together, and play volleyball, and somewhere along the way, fall in love.





	1. all these beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part introspection, part character study, and part indulgence of a pairing I’ve shipped ever since they appeared but had never really delved into until recently. It’s not a hundred percent canon character compliant; I took a couple of liberties. Oikawa Tooru is a character I relate to, in many ways. Iwaizumi Hajime is a character I know in many ways as well.
> 
> It's a bit of an exploration in Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s relationship, and this story is also somewhat personal. It’s taken months and a lot of emotions, but I’m happy and proud to have worked on it.
> 
> I write this partly for my best friend, although she’ll probably never read it. She is my Kuroo and my Daichi and my Noya; she is my strength. And for Dani, Chris, Mau, Aki, Ai, Nic and Haeden – thank you.

* * *

 

Contrary to popular belief, Oikawa Tooru has not always loved volleyball.

For all his natural athletic ability, sports have never come easily to him; he is irritable and impatient as a child, angry that he is not _good_ right away. Football is discarded after he cannot improve the precision of his passes after three weeks, swimming after he cannot coordinate his body to mimic the grace of the older boys in two months. Tennis rackets are chucked aside because he wants to hit strong serves already and who cares about learning to swing?

When Oikawa sees something he likes, he _wants_. And when he cannot have it immediately – whether it is automatic competence or a toy at the store – he is wont to sulk, then sniff haughtily and move on, because if he cannot have it then it probably isn’t that big of a deal.

 _Not_ contrary to popular belief, after all, is that Oikawa Tooru has rarely doubted his self-importance.

Also not contrary to popular belief is that Iwaizumi Hajime and Oikawa Tooru have been friends for as long as they can remember, although _why_ or _how,_ Oikawa doesn’t recall.

It isn’t for lack of trying; Oikawa has attempted on multiple occasions to think of a time where Iwa-chan (as he is fond of calling his friend, no matter how many times Iwaizumi has exasperatedly, tiredly, desperately tried to get him to _stop already, Shittykawa)_ – to think of a time where Iwa-chan _wasn’t_ in his life. He knows this time exists, somewhere between Oikawa chewing on his toes as a baby and chewing the erasers on the end of his pencils in elementary. He knows they must have had a first meeting somehow, but he can’t _remember_.

Iwaizumi does, and it’s one of those irrationally pleasing things for him, that every once in a while Oikawa will pester him about it because _Iwa-chan, I want to know, it’s not fair if only you do_. It’s not all that special a meeting in itself, to tell the truth, because all that had happened was the Oikawa family had moved in across the street and had a child of Iwaizumi’s age. But it’s nice to know it means that much to Oikawa that he’d even resort to trying to bribe Iwaizumi with popsicles just to find out.

(It didn’t work, of course. Iwaizumi doesn’t know why Oikawa just doesn’t ask his mom, or Iwaizumi’s mom, but he shrugs and eats his freeze pop. There are many things he doesn’t understand about Oikawa, and he’s long given up trying to force the issue with half of them.)

Iwaizumi Hajime and Oikawa Tooru have been together nearly all their lives, and in the end that is all that matters. Oikawa will say stupid things and Iwaizumi will hit him, Oikawa will smile his bright smile and Iwaizumi will forgive him, the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. It is how things are.

It is Iwaizumi, in the end, who gets him to persist with volleyball.

 

 

“Oi, Bakatooru, come on, we have practice.”

Iwaizumi stands in Oikawa’s doorway, wearing their training uniform, arms crossed in a way that brooks no arguments. Oikawa is lying on his stomach on the bed, chin tucked on the edge of his mattress and arms dangling over, reading a comic book that’s on the floor. He’s still in his pajamas.

“Stupidkawa, come _on_ —”

“I’m not coming,” Oikawa says lazily, as he turns another page.

“Why not?”

“Because volleyball is stupid and I’m not even allowed to hit spikes yet and anyway—”

Oikawa doesn’t get to say what _anyway,_ because Iwaizumi strides over and shoves at him until he’s sitting up.

After all, contrary to popular belief, Iwaizumi does not have infinite reserves of patience; far from it. Oikawa would know.

“Ow, _ow,_ Iwa-chan – stop, I said I don’t _want_ – ow!”

Oikawa sits there, grumbling and trying to fix his hair, while Iwaizumi digs around his closet for his uniform. He shoves it into Oikawa’s arms and plonks down on the floor. His jaw is set in a way that reminds Oikawa of his mother when she makes him do chores.

“What are you doing?” Oikawa asks, frowning.

“Waiting for you to change,” Iwaizumi answers flatly. He raises his eyebrows and nods his head in the direction of the uniform on Oikawa’s lap. “Well?”

“But I said—”

“And I’m not listening.” Iwaizumi leads back on his hands and stares at Oikawa, who picks at his uniform and stares back. Sometimes Oikawa wonders if Iwaizumi really is just eight years old.

He sighs. “Fine,” he relents, as he shuffles into a better sitting position and starts changing his clothes. When his head pops out of the collar of his jersey, he finds that Iwaizumi is grinning.

Oikawa flushes an irritated pink and huffs, straightening out his clothes. He haphazardly shoves the rest of his training gear – extra shirts, a towel, the comic book he’d been reading, socks and shoes – into a bag and stomps past Iwaizumi to the door.

Iwaizumi grins all the way to the court.

 

 

Oikawa hates it – volleyball, that is.

He hates the grind of practice, hates having to do the same basic exercises over and over. He hates the other sweaty, noisy kids who just horse around and throw balls at each other. He hates when he misses a receive and gets smacked in the face.

And he won’t admit it, but he hates how Iwaizumi is just _good_ at this.

Athleticism is also a natural trait for Iwaizumi, picked up from spending early years outdoors and running all around their neighborhood. When Oikawa had preferred to remain inside, reading books and watching cartoons, Iwaizumi had preferred to kick a ball around and climb trees. So while Oikawa gets irritated far too easily and can’t focus on the court, Iwaizumi breezes through drills and finds an inclination for a high jump.

But Oikawa persists, because he won’t let Iwaizumi be better than him at _everything_ and he’s sure that if Iwaizumi can, than he can too… somehow.

(His finds consolation in the fact that Iwaizumi hates receive drills too.)

“Oikawa-chan,” their instructor pleads, trying to placate him. They’re practicing their passing, and he keeps messing up his receives. “Just focus on getting your form right first, all right? It’s fine if you can’t control the ball yet. You’re still learning.”

But Oikawa just grits his teeth and gets back in position, glaring at Iwaizumi. He wipes at the sweat on his brow and brings his arms up in front. “One more.”

 

 

A year later:

His receives are still clumsy, and he still has a hard time coordinating his jump with the swing of his arm, but Oikawa finds he’s quite competent at tossing. It’s easier to control the ball with his fingers than his forearms, easier to direct it where he wants it to go by tossing up rather than slamming down. He likes those drills the best, practices shifting the ball back and forth between his hands by just the tips of his fingers.

He loves the feel of it: the quickest of touches by his fingers, all the strength in just the tips, throwing the ball up high into the spikers’ domain.

It happens when they first connect, when Oikawa finally sends _just the right toss_ up and Iwaizumi times his run perfectly. It’s the first time they’ve executed an attack correctly, together on the court. Oikawa looks down at his hands, and Iwaizumi looks at the place where his spike had hit the floor. Then they look at each other. Iwaizumi’s eyes sparkle in awe.

It happens, just like that: Oikawa decides he loves volleyball.

 

Or perhaps, not _just_ like that. It is, at least, the start, because his attitude needs adjusting as well. He’s always been competitive, always wanted to be the best at everything, the most important and the center of attention. When he can’t be, Oikawa will push the thing away and ignore it.

This time, with volleyball, Oikawa _works._ He stays behind after their neighborhood team practice is over, begging Iwaizumi to do passing drills with him or throw balls up for him to toss. When his friend refuses, he practices against the wall until Iwaizumi or his sister comes to drag him away. He begs his mother to give him a ball for his birthday, which he proceeds to toss up in bed or bounce against his wall.

He wants that feeling again, the fleeting success of a perfectly timed toss into the spiker’s path. But more than that, he is beginning to _understand_ now – the importance of a receive that gets the ball to the setter; the strength of the spike that breaks beyond the blockers’ wall; the intelligence of a block that isn’t just about stopping the ball; the power of a serve that is more than putting the ball into play. Again and again and _again,_ the connections that make up a play in volleyball.

 

(Iwaizumi asks him, once, much later on. They are sixteen, and they’ve just lost to Shiratorizawa _again._ He and Oikawa are sitting on the balcony of Iwaizumi’s house, staring at the night sky.

“Why volleyball?”

Oikawa continues to look up at the sky, and Iwaizumi wonders if maybe his friend hadn’t heard him. But then Oikawa exhales, long and tired, and leans back on his hands. “What do you mean?”

Iwaizumi weighs his response. “You used to hate everything you weren’t good at right away, all the sports. You had so much abandoned sports junk in your closet that your mom made you donate them all.” Both their mouths twist into small grins at the memory. “But you stuck it out with volleyball.”

The stars are too far away, and it’s too bright in the town for them to really be reflected in Oikawa’s eyes as he answers, but Iwaizumi fancies he sees starlight there anyway.)

 

But the best thing is when Oikawa sends the perfect toss to Iwaizumi: a low arc, falling close to the net, timed just right to meet his swing. Iwaizumi slams the ball down to the floor, beyond the reach of any receive. It is a precision born from hard work and a link between them that goes beyond the court.

It is worth every minute Oikawa devotes to training: both the feeling of success and the ecstatic look on Iwaizumi’s face.

 

 

A combination of their presence on their elementary school volleyball team and their grades (it’s the first time Iwaizumi sees his friend so serious about something aside from volleyball – but perhaps it doesn’t count, because it’s motivated _by_ volleyball) gets them into Kitagawa Daiichi, a powerhouse school in the prefecture. Oikawa is excited; Iwaizumi just wants to be able to play. Oikawa buys brand-new training gear and reads about Kitagawa Daiichi’s volleyball history, their playing records, even their players. He drags Iwaizumi to their first day of club activities fifteen minutes early, eager to make an impression.

Oikawa gets a hard reality check instead.

“I can’t wait to play” is what Oikawa had said the summer before they entered junior high, but he finds he does have to wait – one whole year. One year and he doesn’t start, barely gets used as a sub, unable to displace the third- and second-year setters ahead of him. Oikawa is angry at first, seething at the sidelines. He wants to _play._

 

A little less than a month through and Oikawa stops attending practice, skipping to go hang out with the numerous girls who fawn over him or the other boys in their class. Iwaizumi endures for all of three weeks, and then hunts him down one day after school. He finds Oikawa at the arcade, laughing as he beats Hanamaki Takahiro in air hockey, surrounded by their cheering classmates. Iwaizumi pauses to watch his friend, eyes lit up in that slightly manic way he gets when he’s competing.

There’s a loud _clack_ as Oikawa expertly shoots the puck into Hanamaki’s goal. Their classmates whoop loudly; two of the girls press themselves against Oikawa, congratulate him with sickeningly sweet smiles.

“Now, now, ladies,” Oikawa says (and it’s the _voice_ that makes Iwaizumi cringe, the honey-trap one). He pats them both on the shoulder. “Settle down.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t bother waiting for them to reply; he stomps forward and pinches his friend right on the ear, pulling him away. (Iwaizumi is never gentle with Oikawa.)

“What—Iwa-chan, _ow,_ that _hurts!”_ Oikawa sputters as he attempts to free himself from Iwaizumi’s grip, but being dragged backwards makes things a little difficult. Several people – mostly girls – protest, but Iwaizumi throws them a _look_ over his shoulder and they return to their games sheepishly.

Oikawa struggles and sputters the whole way out. Iwaizumi just drags him along.

“ _Ow,_ ” Oikawa says petulantly, once Iwaizumi’s let him go, glaring at his friend and rubbing at his ear. “What was _that_ for? That really _hurt_ , Iwa-chan.”

“You missed practice.” Iwaizumi crosses his arms and leans against the wall of the arcade, unsympathetic. “Coach has been looking for you.”

Oikawa’s look changes from irritated to pinched. “So?” he asks, defensive, sniffing haughtily and not meeting Iwaizumi’s eyes.

Iwaizumi glowers at him. Oikawa has all of three seconds before his friend smacks him on the head.

“Idiot,” Iwaizumi snaps, before Oikawa can squawk another protest. “How are you going to become the best setter in the country if you don’t train?”

Oikawa purses his lips and glances up at Iwaizumi, one hand still gingerly on the side of his head. Iwaizumi’s looking at him, unamused.

Oikawa knows his friend isn’t going to budge. So he sighs as well, and straightens up. Iwaizumi’s already starting to walk away.

Halfway home (whose home? It doesn’t matter; _home_ is no longer a physical place at this point, and they are so often in each other’s rooms that neither space belongs to just one person anymore) – halfway home, Oikawa bites his lip and looks at the back of Iwaizumi’s head. His friend is as he has always been: slightly slouched, hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead.

“Iwa-chan?” he asks quietly (in _that_ voice, the hesitant one that only Iwaizumi gets to hear).

Iwaizumi doesn’t even turn around, just hums questioningly in response.

“Do you really think I’ll become the… well,” Oikawa trails off, sheepish. He hunches up his shoulders and wrinkles his nose at the pavement.

This time Iwaizumi does pause and glance at Oikawa out of the corner of his eye. He cuffs his friend on the side of the head once more, but halfway through musses up Oikawa’s hair.

“Dumbass,” he says again, and only Oikawa will detect the affection in his tone. “Of course you will.”

 

 

They are inevitably and inextricably entwined: Iwaizumi and volleyball.

Oikawa returns to training and slogs through it, gritting his teeth. He uses Iwaizumi’s pointed looks, his friend’s light and understanding touches, to get through the treatment from their seniors, get through having to do most of cleaning duty and carrying duty and water-fetching duty. He uses Iwaizumi’s work ethic as a challenge and makes himself work twice as hard. He uses Iwaizumi’s determination to fuel his own.

If he cannot play, then he will watch; Oikawa trains his eyes on the court during practice matches, memorizing combination plays and moves. He observes his teammates in training: how high they jump, how quick they move, how far they reach. Oikawa is a little more subdued these days but more focused, and Iwaizumi sees this with quiet pride.

Oikawa watches, and looks, and _learns._

It is Iwaizumi (because of course it is, it always is) whom he bribes to do extra practice with him on weekends, in the multi-purpose hall where they learned to play. Oikawa practices his tosses, trying to match them precisely to Iwaizumi’s swing. Iwaizumi, on his part, simply keeps jumping, trusting every time that the ball will come to him.

“One more,” Oikawa says through gritted teeth, frowning in concentration. His wrists are sore, and the tips of his fingers are slightly raw. He turns to pick up another ball.

Iwaizumi is panting, sweat dripping from his forehead. His calves are burning. He mops at his face with the collar of his shirt and returns to the court line.

Toss, spike. It will come.

 

 

The junior high athletic meet comes and goes. Their team bows out in the prefectural finals to Shiratorizawa Junior High. Realistically, freshmen can’t expect to start, not in Kitagawa Daiichi. Iwaizumi and Oikawa watch the match from the stands with their fellow first years, cheering their upperclassmen on. Or Iwaizumi does; Oikawa mostly watches in an intense silence, eyes shifting back and forth as he watches the teams duke it out. His knee twitches lightly, the right one; sometimes his hands shift when a team makes a particularly good play. His teeth nibble at his thumb. All the while his brow is furrowed.

On the court, Iwaizumi watches Shiratorizawa’s only freshman starter smash the ball onto the court for set point. The crowd chants his name, _Ushijima._ A sense of foreboding creeps up Iwaizumi’s spine as the Shiratorizawa players gather round Ushijima, clapping him on the back. He shakes his head quickly, turning back to Oikawa, who’s still staring at the court.

Iwaizumi knows that look. Oikawa is memorizing. It is the same look he gets on his face when he reads (devours) the chapters about space in their science books.

He nudges his friend lightly. Oikawa looks up, blinking slowly out of his daze. Iwaizumi keeps his expression deadpan as he presses the tip of his finger to the space between Oikawa’s eyebrows.

“Wrinkles,” he says ominously.

Oikawa’s eyes widen comically as he slaps his hands to his forehead. “Where?!” he yelps, to the irritation of people around them.

Iwaizumi laughs, even as Oikawa starts smacking him and calling him _mean_ and _bully._ He can sense Hanamaki chuckling a little beside him, as Matsukawa rolls his eyes.

“I do _not_ have wrinkles,” Oikawa says grouchily, slouching down in his seat with a huff.

Satisfied, Iwaizumi pats Oikawa’s shoulder. “Of course you don’t,” he replies, smirking, as he turns back to watch the match.

The frown returns to Oikawa’s face in a little while, but it’s not as deep as before. His legs shift, right thigh pressed casually against Iwaizumi’s left. It’s warm.

 

Training resumes after the competition, and the third years retire. There is a small alteration in Oikawa’s mood, something like a sense of expectancy. Iwaizumi knows his friend hopes they’ll be more involved now, get more chances.

He hopes so too. Especially for Oikawa.

 

 

Two weeks later, they have a practice match against Shichigahama Junior High. This time, Oikawa gets to start in the second set.

Iwaizumi doesn’t wish him good luck, just taps his friend lightly on the shoulder.

Oikawa takes his place in the front row.

 

Iwaizumi also says nothing when Oikawa returns to the bench after just one set, red-faced and tight-lipped. But a little later, he glances around, then very lightly touches his fingers to the back of Oikawa’s hand.

His touch is subtle and reserved, Oikawa’s more unrestrained; it is how they always are. Oikawa turns his hand over to clasp Iwaizumi’s tightly, in the small space between them, even as his eyes remain fixed firmly on the floor.

Iwaizumi doesn’t move an inch.

 

“I didn’t do much wrong,” Oikawa says later, on the bus. His quiet words are almost lost amidst the chatter of their teammates, but Iwaizumi hears him.

“No,” he replies, looking straight ahead. He feels his friend shift beside him, and Oikawa’s head comes to rest on his shoulder.

“I didn’t do much right, either,” Oikawa adds, even more quietly.

Iwaizumi closes his eyes and tips his head a little to rest on his friend’s.

“No,” he says again, and Oikawa leans into him a little harder. Iwaizumi lets him.

 

 

Oikawa doubles down in practice after. He’s determined (a little unrealistically) to become the starting setter, although Iwaizumi tries to reason that just getting to play every once in a while would be more than enough (they’re still first years, after all). But Oikawa has never wanted to be less than perfect at something.

(And with his boundless energy, he pulls Iwaizumi along with him, and Iwaizumi goes willingly because he doesn’t want to be left behind and doesn’t want Oikawa to be better than him. He wants to be right there with Oikawa when they become the best on the court.)

Ahead of the spring athletic meet, their practices intensify. The first years are more involved now, no longer restricted to ball duty. Their training becomes a little more specialized; Oikawa is allowed to partake in the setter drills, while Iwaizumi joins Matsukawa and Hanamaki for spiking. There’s a tiny spark of excitement about them.

Then, on a Friday, two weeks before the spring meet:

Iwaizumi takes his place at the line. At his turn, he pauses, inhales, and runs. The second-year setter, Hibari Osamu, is a pillar of experience and precision. Iwaizumi doesn’t even have to watch to know the ball will fall where his hand will meet it. The exhilaration of the perfect spike will never get old.

In the other lane, Oikawa smirks as he tosses up a high ball for Matsukawa to meet. It is four more tosses before Oikawa makes a mistake. One of the other second-years, Kunikida Akashi, jumps, but Oikawa’s fumbled his aim, and it’s too high for the spiker. Kunikida whips around, furious.

“The fuck was that?” he snaps, glaring. Iwaizumi’s hackles rise even as their coach, Tainaka Yusuke, tells Kunikida to calm down and move it. He turns to his friend, but Oikawa has his back to Iwaizumi, already preparing for the next toss. Pursing his lips, Iwaizumi starts to move forward when Kunikida cuts into the line in front of him.

“You’re switching,” the senior snaps at Iwaizumi, brushing him aside and taking his place. It takes Iwaizumi a moment to understand what he means, but when he does, his blood starts to boil. Their coach rolls his eyes and sighs, motioning for Iwaizumi to just go with it. In his peripheral vision, Iwaizumi sees the Coach Tainaka turn to his assistants for a hushed discussion, gesturing in the setters’ direction.

Oikawa himself doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch, just picks up another ball and positions himself for the next toss. The rest of the team might assume he’s simply ignoring what had just happened, but Iwaizumi knows better. There is a tightness at the corners of Oikawa’s eyes, in his lips, and between his shoulders. He doesn’t make another mistake.

 

 

What happens is this: for their entire first year, none of them play in an official match. They remain in the warm-up area during the spring meet, watching as their senpai reach the semi-finals only to bow out once again to Shiratorizawa Academy. And they watch their team get crushed by a first year prodigy, all their carefully-honed combination plays broken by a singular, overwhelming strength.

 _Ushijima Wakatoshi._ Iwaizumi tears his eyes from Shiratorizawa’s team to see Oikawa staring at Ushijima with an expression Iwaizumi doesn’t like. But his friend does nothing, just turns and helps the rest of the team pack up. Iwaizumi glances back, then follows.

Later, when they are leaving the stadium, Oikawa comes to a halt; Iwaizumi almost runs into him. He’s about to scold his friend when he sees the look on Oikawa’s face, the way he watches their senpai walk forward with heads held defiantly high. It makes Iwaizumi straighten up instinctively, catch his breath.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, clear and decisive, “we’re going to win next time.”

The corners of Iwaizumi’s mouth twitch up, and he exhales sharply to cover his smile. Then he punches Oikawa on the shoulder for good measure.

“You bet.”

 

(It is the _we_ in the sentence that gets Iwaizumi, and Oikawa’s staunch belief that they will be the ones on the court next time, the ones who will push forward to victory. Because while he is better at hiding it than his friend, Iwaizumi cannot completely swallow down the bitterness in his throat at not being able to play. Oikawa is not the only one who wants to stand on the court as long as possible.

It is the _we_ that gets him, because it means that Oikawa firmly believes that it will be the both of them standing on the court.)

 

 

What happens is this: Oikawa takes to volleyball with a single-minded determination that is a little bit frightening. When they return for their second year, he has closed the gap, forced himself into contention for the setter spot. Slowly but surely, he is making a name for himself on the court.

He changes things: the way he approaches setting – approaches volleyball in general. Oikawa doggedly sets about converting his observations into plays, painstakingly adjusting until he gets it right. His sets are good because they are easy to hit, carefully tailored to each player. Every time he sends up a toss, he makes sure to ask: _how was it, what do you need me to change?_ And when his teammates tell him, he listens. He learns.

 

In training, over summer break:

Oikawa’s brow is wrinkled in concentration as he aligns his fingers to the downward path of the ball. Matsukawa Issei is next in line to spike; he has long arms but jumps a little slower than the other spikers, and a bit farther from the net.

The ball goes up.

Matsukawa hits it, _smack,_ and the ball deflects off their libero on the other side of the court.

Oikawa grins fiercely. Matsukawa looks at his hand in slight surprise.

“Good toss,” he tells Oikawa. The setter’s eyes light up.

Behind Oikawa, although he doesn’t know it, Iwaizumi has a small smile.

 

Iwaizumi, too, has changed a little. As he is, his spikes are not powerful, so he begins honing his precision instead. He tries to discern how to target, how to hit around or off the block instead of simply through it. His straight spikes become a little sharper. His best attacks are still always off Oikawa’s tosses.

Their partnership on the court is now beginning to flourish, as they push each other to keep improving. It feels so easy to find each other with a toss or a receive; they are so attuned to each other outside of volleyball that it translates into their play. And it pays off.

Their first practice match of the season is against Sendai Nika. Both Iwaizumi and Oikawa get to play in the second set. Together, they score a combined 12 points.

Iwaizumi scores their last point, a center quick that ricochets off the block and into the far corner. He looks at his hand, then at Oikawa, who is staring at the spot where the ball had hit the court. When his friend looks up, they’re both grinning.

 

 

What happens is this: when the summer junior high athletic meet arrives, Oikawa is the starting setter. Iwaizumi looks at his friend in uniform, standing there with his shoulders back and his head high as their coach goes over the lineup and attack strategy. There’s a smile in Iwaizumi’s eyes, soft and proud.

Before the starting six take to the court, Oikawa glances over to Iwaizumi and holds out his hand. They touch fists, lightly.

“Go get ‘em,” Iwaizumi says, smirking. Oikawa bares his teeth in return.

“We’ll take them all down.”

 

The border between the court and the sidelines is a simple strip of paint, but for Oikawa, it feels like the edge of a cliff. There is a moment of hesitation, trepidation, when he stands at the threshold. He is here.

Then he takes a step, and another, and anticipation ripples up his spine because he is _here._ On the court.

The view is immense. Never mind that it is just the first preliminary match; never mind that their opponents have never made it past the first round before. Amidst the ring of the crowd, the scent of sweat and Salonpas, and thrum of expectation in the air, Oikawa takes a deep breath.

_We’re going to win._

 

Jump and toss, jump and block, jump and spike: on the court, Oikawa is in constant motion, barely able to catch his breath. It’s exhilarating. Every touch to the ball, every set makes his fingers feel like they have constellations spinning from them. Like he contains a sun, bright and burning.

He does not let his concentration waver. Every set is meticulously sent up after he analyzes the situation: where his spikers are jumping, where the blockers have moved, where the libero on the other side is standing. He watches and follows accordingly. Every point they score resounds in his head like a thunder clap.

When Iwaizumi and Matsukawa are subbed in midway through the second set, with Kitagawa Daiichi already at an insurmountable 19-10 lead, Oikawa is so keyed up he’s almost dizzy. All he can think about is the next play; who he should toss to, where he should move. His breathes come through his mouth, lips parted in a not-quite-grin.

He summons the stars in his fingers and throws up the last toss to Iwaizumi for a razor-sharp straight. The ball strikes the floor, and they have won.

They have _won._

Off Oikawa’s tosses, as a team, they have won.

 

The Kitagawa Daiichi players swarm Iwaizumi, ruffling his hair and complimenting his last spike. But Iwaizumi looks past them all to Oikawa, who seems rooted to the spot. Then Oikawa meets his eyes, and Iwaizumi imagines this is what it feels like to be caught by a hurricane.

And then Oikawa is engulfed as well, and their captain is yelling at them all to line up. As Iwaizumi comes to stand beside his friend, he notices that Oikawa’s shaking.

The frown is already forming on his brow, but Oikawa abruptly grabs his hand and squeezes so tight it almost hurts.

“Iwa-chan,” he says breathlessly, and when he turns to Iwaizumi his eyes are so bright. “We _won._ ”

Iwaizumi looks at Oikawa, with his pink cheeks and wide smile, and feels another grin pull at the corners of his mouth. He squeezes back as hard as his sore hands can manage.

“We did.”

 

They take the next match against Furukawa Gakuen, also in straight sets. Again, Oikawa starts and again, he feels the constellations in his fingers. He’s always known the view from outside the court was different from the one on it, but it still feels terrifying and fantastic to be there on the court itself, where time is defined in split-seconds and whistles. He thinks, _perhaps this is what it’s like to feel invincible._

They take the second set off his setter dump; he looks down at their opponents sprawled on the floor, expression wild and greedy. There are galaxies swirling in his lungs with every breath.

He turns to Iwaizumi, wanting to try and explain how he feels, just a little, but then his friend punches him in the shoulder.

 _“Ow!_ Iwa-chan, what—”

“That’s for using me as a decoy,” Iwaizumi mutters, glaring at Oikawa. And then he breaks into a grin, holding out a clenched fist. Oikawa answers with his own smile and a tap of his hand.

“Nice kill,” Iwaizumi says, and Oikawa feels like a comet, like he’s been set alight.

 

 

Their third round match is against Shiratorizawa, in a battle of two powerhouse schools. It will be the first time Iwaizumi and Oikawa get to go up against their storied rivals, and the first time they confront Ushijima Wakatoshi on the court.

Iwaizumi remembers Oikawa’s words from last year, outside the stadium, in the bitterness of defeat: _we’re going to win next time._

And now, they’re here.

 

Oikawa takes his place on the court with the starting six. Across the net, Ushijima stands there; even when still, his presence is tremendous. But they can win this.

_We’re going to win._

 

Kunikida takes off for the opposite end of the court for a broad attack, and Oikawa’s eyes follow his movements as his fingers shift on instinct, catching the falling ball and throwing it up into the path of Kunikida’s downward swing.

The toss is perfect.

Shiratorizawa’s block is perfect, too.

 

Oikawa has plenty of respect for their libero. Narukami Asato is extremely skilled, with quick reflexes and the ability to consistently return the ball to the setter. He’s soft-spoken, but he’s a solid presence on the court.

Ushijima’s left-handed spike ricochets off Narukami’s outstretched arms and into the barriers, knocking one over. The score reads 15-9 in favor of Shiratorizawa.

Oikawa grits his teeth as he helps Narukami back up, slaps him on the back.

“We’ll get the next one,” he says.

 

Iwaizumi is on the court for the second set. When the receive goes up, he runs, jumps; knows the toss is coming. Oikawa’s timing is excellent on Iwaizumi’s preferred set: parallel, a little high, and off to the right. His palm catches the ball easily.

The Shiratorizawa libero digs it out like it’s nothing.

Ushijima slams the resulting set past all three Kitagawa Daiichi blockers, including Iwaizumi.

 

They don’t play badly. They don’t have an off match. Oikawa’s game is spot-on, the way he distributes the offense and brings the team together. Even their combination attacks work.

But like a sledgehammer to concrete, Shiratorizawa shatters all their efforts with simple, brute force. They receive the ball, then return fire in an overpowering attack. Oikawa’s fingers are stinging from when he’d tried to block a few of Ushijima’s spikes. Iwaizumi looks furious, almost desperate.

The match ends 25-19, 25-21 in favor of Shiratorizawa. They hadn’t won a single set, hadn’t had a single lead.

Ushijima doesn’t spare any of them a single glance, except Oikawa. There’s a curious look in his eyes as he looks at the Kitagawa Daiichi setter, although before Oikawa can ask (or pick a fight), Ushijima has turned away.

They form their lines, bow. When Oikawa looks back up, he’s fighting back tears.

“Iwa-chan,” he says (unsteady, determined). “We’re going to win next time.”

Beside him, Iwaizumi nods.

It’s their first official tournament. They’re only second years. They have time.

 

(It hurts, the loss. It stings in their hands, their chests, in the corners of their eyes where the tears are pricking. But they just need to come back stronger.)

 

The third years retire. To absolutely no one’s surprise, Oikawa is made captain. He stands there with his head held high, jaw set.

This team is his now, to lead and to carry. To bring to victory.

“Ugh, I don’t wanna have to listen to you,” Matsukawa whines.

Oikawa looks at him in disbelief. _“What?”_ he asks, askance.

“Me neither,” Hanamaki adds.

“Or me,” Iwaizumi says.

“You’re bossy,” Matsukawa says, shrugging. Around them, the rest of the team is desperately trying not to laugh.

“Annoying,” Iwaizumi points out.

“I don’t believe this,” Oikawa sputters, appalled. “After everything—”

“Iwaizumi should be vice-captain,” Hanamaki declares, talking as if Oikawa isn’t saying anything. This time, it’s Iwaizumi who turns around to look at him in horror

 _“No,”_ he says adamantly, shaking his head and waving his arms. “No I should _not.”_

But Hanamaki and Matsukawa are wearing those grins they have when they’re about to gang up on Oikawa. “All in favor?” Hanamaki asks.

Their fellow second years, Narukami and Yukihira Eiji, raise their hands, snickering.

“First years vote too!” Narukami calls over his shoulder. After a moment, a few more shaky hands are up.

“Settled!” Matsukawa yells, punching the air. Iwaizumi groans and buries his face into his hands.

“I cannot _believe—_ ”

Oikawa tackles him in a relieved hug.

 

A few blocks from their homes, however, Iwaizumi taps his friend on the shoulder.

“Congratulations,” he says wryly, looking ahead. “Although we were all expecting it.”

“Of course, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa replies airily, nose in the air and expression smug. “It’s obvious that I’m the best qualified to lead our team, unlike your gorilla self.”

Iwaizumi catches him in a headlock.

“I’m kidding, I’m _kidding,_ ow, _Iwa-chan!”_

He keeps him there for a moment longer before relenting, then reaches out to ruffle Oikawa hair. His friend looks up, pouting, but Iwaizumi just looks him dead in the eye.

“I mean it,” he says, and he does. For all that they tease him, there’s no one else the team trusts more to bring them together than their setter. Despite his age, Oikawa’s presence is magnetic, his energy infectious; but more than that, he unifies the team. With his skill, with his leadership, he makes them a unit. And he trusts them implicitly in return.

Oikawa looks away, but Iwaizumi can see the pink on his cheeks, the crumple of his lips as he tries not to smile (or cry; knowing Oikawa, either are likely). He mumbles, looking determinedly at the ground; Iwaizumi doesn’t catch it.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Oikawa rubs his nose and stomps forward.

“Oi.” Iwaizumi cuts him off and tries to meet his eyes. Oikawa is even redder now, the color high in his cheeks.

“I said,” he mutters, ducking his head. “I’m – happy. That you’re. My. Vice-captain.” He huffs and shoves past Iwaizumi, shoulders hunched up by his ears. “Come on, it’s getting late.”

Iwaizumi looks at his friend and feels something small and warm settle inside him, in his chest. He opens his mouth, uncertain of how to reply, then just closes it again and catches up to his friend.

“We did say we’d win,” he says lightly. Oikawa scoffs.

“Of course we will.”

That something is building inside of Iwaizumi, like a fire under his skin. “We’re going to win,” he says again, louder and more decisive. Beside him, Oikawa’s teeth are bared in his smile. “We’re going to get better, and stronger, and we’re going to win.”

Oikawa grabs his hand and squeezes tight, looks up at the darkening afternoon sky.

“We will.”

 

 

 _Spring meet._ It looms on the horizon, a goal and a deadline. They grit their teeth, buckle down in training. Spend their lunch breaks talking about their teammates, their strengths, possible weaknesses. Iwaizumi looks at Oikawa and thinks that for all this boy’s posturing, carelessness, he’s a good captain. It makes him a little proud.

 

Oikawa inhales, exhales, calls for the warm-up. He cannot be complacent. While they train, other teams will be training as well, refining their plays and rebuilding. Shiratorizawa will not be resting on their laurels, either.

(He remembers the feeling of galaxies in his lungs, stars at his fingertips, and how it had bled into desperation and frustration in that last match, under the sheer force of Shiratorizawa’s attack. How he had tried everything, choreographed their attacks, tried to find a weakness in the opposition. How he had failed.)

He adds serve practice to a growing training regimen, doubles the setter drills with the first year that the coach wants to train.

It’ll be like Iwaizumi had said: they’ll get stronger, better. _Oikawa_ will get better, be able to do more on the court. He doesn’t want to fail again.

 

Iwaizumi stays with him for extra practice every Friday. They work on their quick attacks, their combinations; until the toss and spike are instinctive. Oikawa works on his jump serve with Iwaizumi on the other side of the net to receive. Sometimes their fellow second years join them, and they get into 3-on-3 sets.

They’re getting better, all of them. Oikawa can see it. The blocks are a little faster, the spikes are a little smoother; they’re becoming better-connected.

All of them here want to stand on a bigger stage, and they’re all willing to fight for it.

Iwaizumi smashes the ball off Matsukawa’s block, after Oikawa has feinted a direct attack. Everyone’s eyes are drawn to where the ball had hit the floor. Oikawa exhales constellations.

“Nice kill,” he says under his breath. Iwaizumi grins back.

 

 

The spring meet arrives. Shiratorizawa and Kitagawa Daiichi are in separate blocks, which means the only chance to meet is in the finals. Oikawa looks at the listings and thinks, _we’re going to make it this time._

Iwaizumi grabs him by the bag strap and drags him into the gym.

 

Kitagawa Daiichi are not called a powerhouse school for nothing; with sharper offense, more cohesive defense, they clear each round without too much difficulty. With all the second years as starters, they play more as a unit. Oikawa has committed to memory the kinds of tosses that work best for each player, how best to enable their attack.

To no one’s surprise, they reach the final. And Ushijima and Shiratorizawa are waiting for them.

Coach Tainaka runs through the initial strategy one last time, emphasizing the need to keep their blocks sharp and their receives connecting. Oikawa stands in the dugout and feels Ushijima’s presence on the other side of the net, this one last wall he has to overcome.

When the starting six turn to take their places on the court, he claps his hands and takes a deep breath. His teammates turn to him, perplexed.

Oikawa summons his biggest smile and says, “I believe in you.”

 

They’ve gotten better, all of them. Oikawa knows this, has seen it. Their combinations and plays are sharper, smoother. They are better-connected.

Hanamaki feints a broad attack, and Oikawa sends a backwards set to Iwaizumi for a c-quick. It lands just out of reach of Shiratorizawa’s libero.

It’s 14-12 to Shiratorizawa, but Kitagawa Daiichi have them within reach.

 

Ushijima smashes the ball down right by Oikawa, so close it stuns him for a moment.

17-13, and pulling away.

 

Iwaizumi grits his teeth, knows he’s moved just a few seconds too late for the block. He’s gotten so wrapped up in marking Ushijima that he’s momentarily forgotten Shiratorizawa’s other spikers. The ball glances off his fingers, deflects out. The referee whistles and signals a point for Shiratorizawa.

 _“Damnit,”_ he hisses under his breath. Then there’s a sharp sting on his back and Oikawa’s pulling his hand away, gesturing to the rest of the team.

“We’ll get it back,” Oikawa is saying. Iwaizumi straightens up and resumes his position.

 

Oikawa throws himself into the path of the ball, ignoring the nagging pain in his right knee even as it knocks against the floor. He gets an arm to it, but it rebounds into the net and drops to the floor before anyone else can save it. And Ushijima is standing there, looking down at Oikawa as his teammates celebrate the point he’d just scored.

24-20, match point.

Oikawa stands, hands shaking, eyes wide and boring into Ushijima’s back. He almost misses the whistle for Shiratorizawa’s serve; it’s as if everything is muffled, buried in cotton. He sees Narukami move to dig out the serve, feels his feet shift himself into position. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ushijima moving to wait for the attacking play.

Iwaizumi is to the left, drawing away two of the Shiratorizawa blockers. Yukihira is running up behind him; Hanamaki is in the back row. Oikawa can picture just what the current setup looks like from the other side.

He holds his breath and tips the ball over the net.

 

Later, Coach Tainaka will tell him not to blame himself; that it had been a smart attack, considering how Shiratorizawa had been focused on blocking their spikers. But Oikawa cannot hear him over the constant replay in his head of Ushijima picking up his setter dump, then dropping back for the run-up to his spike.

25-22, 25-20 to Shiratorizawa.

They have lost.

 

 

It happens after they’ve lined up, given thanks; as he’s trudging back towards the dugout with his head down.

“Oikawa Tooru.” It startles him, when his name is called. He’s never heard Ushijima speak, so it’s a while before Oikawa recognizes who’s talking to him. But he turns, wide-eyed, to find Ushijima looking at him from across the net with an unreadable expression. It makes a chill run down his spine, makes him bare his teeth on instinct.

“What do you want,” Oikawa bites out.

 Ushijima scrutinizes him for a moment, before flicking his gaze over to where the rest of Kitagawa Daiichi are waiting, warily watching this exchange between their captain and the Shiratorizawa ace. There’s a hint of something in Ushijima’s gaze that Oikawa doesn’t like. But the spiker’s next words surprise him.

“You’re a talented setter.” Ushijima levels his gaze at Oikawa, who stares back, nonplussed. It doesn’t deter Ushijima in the slightest. “It’s unfortunate you’re not on the better team. If you were here, you would have won.”

Oikawa opens his mouth, stares at Ushijima. “The better team?” he asks in a slightly strangled voice.

There’s the tiniest of furrows in Ushijima’s brow. It’s making something hot and staticky crawl under Oikawa’s skin. “The better team is the one that wins,” Ushijima says matter-of-factly. “Kitagawa Daiichi are lacking. You should have come to Shiratorizawa instead.”

Oikawa looks at Ushijima, so confident in his assessment, so certain. He thinks of his team, _his,_ he’s been helping nurture their strengths and improve on their weaknesses. He thinks about his position, as setter; about how he’s supposed to be the one to unify them and push them higher. He thinks about the singularity of Shiratorizawa’s play, how this simplistic and crushingly powerful strategy keeps overriding anything they’ve thrown at it.

Oikawa’s hands twitch at his sides as he looks at Ushijima Wakatoshi, this big and daunting wall that seems to block his way, throw him back. If Kitagawa Daiichi are lacking, then that means Oikawa is lacking, inadequate.

_The better team is the one that wins._

Distantly, Oikawa can hear Iwaizumi yelling at him to get going, can hear the crowd dispersing. The static is in his ears, his palms, his throat. When he breathes, it feels like sparks.

“Next time,” he says hoarsely, looking Ushijima right in the eye, “we will be the better team.”

He turns on his heel and walks to their dugout with his head up.

 

They pack up in silence, return to school in silence. Oikawa leads the team to the bus with his head high, jaw set. When they return to the gym, their coach surveys them for a moment before dismissing them, saying they’ll have the post-match meeting tomorrow. They clean up the gym, and slowly the players leave, until Iwaizumi and Oikawa are the ones left. Oikawa is still standing by the ball cart, knuckles white as he grips the canvas.

_The better team is the one that wins._

As captain and as setter, Oikawa is supposed to be the one who connects his team, makes them better. He knows it, he _knows_ – if he can just get that much stronger, if he just works a little harder, he can take them there. He can show Ushijima that raw power isn’t the only way to win.

_Next time, we will be the better team._

Oikawa slams the ball to the floor in frustration. His teeth dig into his lower lip. He can feel the tears spilling over and down his cheeks.

“Why can’t I beat them?” he demands, though it’s not for anyone to answer. It’s for himself, for his consistent _lack,_ his inability to push his team just a little bit further. A few steps away, Iwaizumi is still standing in silence, fists clenched, trying not to cry.

_Next time._

 

When facing off against Ushijima Wakatoshi, Iwaizumi knows that as he is, he cannot compare. He doesn’t have that level of power, cannot command the entire offense of the team with such singularity. He doesn’t have the strength, the guarantee to blow past a block and create a point for his team through sheer force.

He’s simply not good enough yet.

But if he wants to be the team’s ace – if he wants to stand beside Oikawa and declare that the last ball be entrusted to him – then he has to be better, has to be enough.

He listens to the frustration, the break in Oikawa’s voice as the ball smacks to the floor, and clenches his fists.

_Next time._

 

The walk home is heavy, quiet. Absently, Iwaizumi thinks of an upcoming math test they have, the poem he has to analyze for classic literature. Easier things to think about then the loss they’d just had, the way they’d come up short yet again.

He doesn’t notice Oikawa’s stopped walking until he’s almost half a block away.

“Oi, Crappykawa,” he says, though without much heat. But Oikawa just stands there under the street light, head bowed and hands clutching the strap of his bag.

“Oika—”

“We’re going to show him.” Oikawa cuts him off with an unsteady, angry tone. His hands tighten around the strap; he hunches forward. “We’re going to show them. We’re going to be better.”

Iwaizumi can feel the weight of his chest, like water in his lungs. Can feel the echo of Oikawa’s frustration in his own self. He turns to face Oikawa fully, sets his feet. “Okay.”

“I’m going to be better.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to make him eat his words.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t know what Ushijima had said to Oikawa, hasn’t asked; Oikawa hasn’t offered. It doesn’t matter.

“Okay.”

Oikawa takes a wet, shaky inhale and marches forward again, glaring hard to keep back his tears. He grabs Iwaizumi’s hand, pulls him along; Iwaizumi follows.

_Next time, we will be the better team._


	2. transition and threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Oikawa, the wall that is Ushijima Wakatoshi is burden enough, a hurdle he and Iwaizumi and the rest already struggle to overcome. But then Kageyama Tobio shows up, and a shadow looms behind Oikawa and threatens to choke him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have actually had this written for a while but I had a hard time wrapping it up. But finally, an update! Hello to everyone who decided to give this piece a chance and left wonderful comments; it means a lot. ❤

* * *

 

 

When Kageyama Tobio first arrives, nobody thinks anything of it.

Kageyama is talented, yes, but so is everyone who arrives at Kitagawa Daiichi. Oikawa is even excited by the prospect of having a kouhai, someone to nurture and guide as the second setter. Their coach is hopeful that having a backup will drive Oikawa to the next level, the one they need to be on to beat Shiratorizawa.

(They still sting from the defeat in the spring athletics meet. Oikawa’s words still echo at the backs of their minds – _why can’t we beat them?_ They haven’t, they never have, but they’re going to keep trying.)

Kageyama stands there innocently, wide-eyed when faced with Oikawa Tooru in the flesh. His admiration of Oikawa is not subtle, and Oikawa preens under the attention.

And then they see the way he plays.

Oikawa doesn’t remember anything about Akiyama Elementary. If they’re not a potential opponent, a threat, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t know if they were any good, if they won any tournaments. He doesn’t remember hearing anything about their players.

But their former setter is a genius.

Oikawa watches Kageyama during practice, and feels the same desperate fury that crawls under his skin when he comes up against Ushijima in a match. He has played volleyball for longer, has worked at this harder, and he has been with this Kitagawa Daiichi team for two more years. He is captain, and one of the best setters in the prefecture.

In a few weeks, Kageyama makes it as if none of that matters.

Suddenly, Oikawa isn’t just fighting to catch up with Ushijima and overtake him. There is a dark and looming shadow when he looks over his shoulder; Kageyama isn’t just potential. As he is, Kageyama can match Oikawa on the court.

“He can do all kinds of positions, but he’ll eventually be a setter,” their coach says during practice.

Oikawa feels the cold creeping up his spine. He looks at Kageyama and realizes it isn’t just Ushijima now.

Kageyama can beat him, too.

 

Afterwards, Oikawa _changes._ There is a different tone to his determination now: ice where there was fire, steel where there was rock. The first time he asks to stay late after practice (and volunteers to clean up after), even Iwaizumi is surprised.

It is the first time Oikawa tells Iwaizumi, deliberately, “go on ahead”.

His friend hesitates very slightly. “Tell me when you get home,” Iwaizumi says, before turning to leave. Oikawa doesn’t even watch him exit, already back on the court.

When Iwaizumi gets home, he drops his bag in his room and looks around. Oikawa’s left an old shirt of his on the floor; it’s peeking out from under the bed. Iwaizumi picks it up and frowns.

He’s worried. He’s not quite sure why, but he’s worried.

The feeling abates a little when he gets a text an hour and a half later.

> _im home sweetheart_

It comes complete with the customary Oikawa emojis. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and goes back to his homework.

 

 

That time, it had not been a lie. Oikawa had just gotten home, frustrated and worn out. He stomps past his mother and into his room, slams the door.

He stays late again the next time.

 

 

The rest of the team trudge towards the locker room, exhausted, chatting about typical schoolboy things. Oikawa stays back, wheeling the ball cart towards the service line.

Iwaizumi is standing there.

“Oh.” Oikawa pauses, caught a little off-guard. “I’m staying late again, Iwa-chan, so you can go on ahead.”

Iwaizumi looks at him carefully, studies his friend’s posture and body. Oikawa flushes a little, self-conscious, but stands defiant.

Iwaizumi himself doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but whatever it is, he can’t find it. It does little to dissipate the unease at the back of his mind.

“Just—” He frowns, wrinkling his nose. He settles for “tell me when you get home”, and leaves as well.

“Sure,” is Oikawa’s detached reply, as irrelevant as the squeaking of the wheels of the cart.

He’s putting in serves when Iwaizumi leaves the gym. Iwaizumi lingers at the door a little, but Oikawa doesn’t look his way once. There’s a restlessness to Iwaizumi’s movements as he leaves school, his hand opening and closing by his hip. He brushes it off, hunching his shoulders as he walks home.

 

Iwaizumi is eating takoyaki in the living room when Oikawa’s message comes in.

> _nee-san said i stink!! she's so mean iwa-chan!!!_

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes (not for the first time, far from the last) and simply resolves to go over sometime and greet Oikawa’s sister, Yukiko, now that she’s home. He returns to his food.

There’s another beep.

> _there’s a new installment of the movie we watched a few years ago!! friday????_

Iwaizumi vaguely remembers that movie. It had involved space, and aliens, and an emotionally constipated guy having a secret affair with a princess or something. It had also been tedious as all hell. He looks at the message, trying to think of a convincing way to get himself out of this.

> _iwa-chan, im tired_

That makes Iwaizumi pause. No emojis, no excessive exclamation points; this is an irregularity. He briefly considers calling when the next message comes in.

> _being a friend to someone like you should be a paid full-time job!!!_

It has fourteen emojis total. Iwaizumi snorts and tosses his phone down onto the couch. He’ll get back at Oikawa tomorrow.

 

 

They don’t get to watch the movie, because their coach schedules their first practice match against Chidoriyama Junior High on short notice, for Friday. Oikawa knows this school; Chidoriyama are strong. They’re particularly known for their receives.

Ahead of the match, their coach announces the starting lineup.

Iwaizumi is included. And Oikawa is on the bench, because Kageyama will be starting.

“I want to see how you do,” their coach says to Kageyama. It feels like Oikawa is hearing everything through cotton.

After the meeting, Iwaizumi turns to his friend. Oikawa is wearing an odd smile. His cheeks feel stiff. Something is squeezing his chest.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” he says teasingly, trying to affect his usual mock-haughty air. “With a face like that, girls still won’t like you.”

Iwaizumi nails him with a ball and Oikawa yelps.

 

 

Oikawa watches two whole sets from the bench. Iwaizumi scores twenty of the team’s forty-four points in the first two sets. When he gets subbed out in the third set, he’s panting, drenched in sweat, and red-faced from exertion. His eyes are shining.

“Good job,” the coach says to him, clapping him on the shoulder. Iwaizumi startles, then stammers a thanks. A few of their other teammates add their approval.

Oikawa has that odd smile on again, but he quickly resets it to normal when Iwaizumi approaches.

“You’re still not jumping high enough,” is all he says, affecting a stern expression and wagging his finger. Iwaizumi is exhausted, but still has (always will have) the strength to smack his friend on the head.

“Shut up,” he grunts, collapsing on the floor next to Oikawa. Oikawa passes a water bottle over, obliging with silence.

“Good work,” Oikawa murmurs. Iwaizumi peeks at him out of the corner of his eye as he leans his head back to take a long drink. Oikawa is stretching his shoulders silently, eyes trained on the court. There’s an odd slant to his eyes, a tightness to his lips. It’s a darker tone than his usual determination, almost frightening.

When he steps onto the court, a chill settles over the gym.

 

They pummel Chidoriyama in the third set, 25-13. But six of their opponents’ points had been from Oikawa’s errors – missed jump serves, over-hit spikes; a net touch when he’d gone up too fast and frantic into a block. Their offense had been unnervingly fast.

Everyone else is happy with the win, but when they step off the court, there’s still that edge in Oikawa’s expression. It’s there all the way through clean-up, and even when they walk home. Iwaizumi hesitates before they part ways, but what can he say?

“See you, Iwa-chan,” his friend mutters, a little tiredly, before he turns to his house.

It’s been a long day. It was a tough match. Iwaizumi just chalks it up to exhaustion and the set Chidoriyama had snatched from them. He waves Oikawa off, then heads home.

 

When he gets to his room, absolutely ready to pass out, he finds another text from Oikawa.

> _since we didn’t get to watch the movie, tomorrow?? buy me ramen_

Iwaizumi reads it, then tosses his phone onto his bed. He follows it soon after. Nestled in soft, clean sheets and pillows, his body feels too heavy to move. He should probably change, and shower, and eat something before falling asleep…

At dinner time, his mother peeks into his room to find Iwaizumi snoring lightly; he hasn’t even taken off his shoes. She smiles fondly as she turns off the light and gently closes the door.

 

 

When Oikawa had gotten home, he’d been fine. He’d greeted his parents, gotten barley tea from the kitchen, plopped down on his bed. Texted Iwaizumi about seeing the movie tomorrow. When his friend doesn’t reply, he calls once, then again when he gets no response. A quick peek out the window shows the lights of Iwaizumi’s room are closed. Oikawa realizes his friend is probably quite tired, and quite asleep.

Something twists in his chest. He shuts the curtains a little roughly, flexing fingers that feel like they hadn’t touched the ball enough.

There’s a twitchiness inside himself that he can’t seem to quiet, not over dinner and not while he takes a shower. It worsens when he realizes the shirt he’s wearing is actually Iwaizumi’s. After trying to study, then trying to read, then trying to sleep, he seethes and shoves his laptop open.

Oikawa opens YouTube automatically, searching out all the videos he can of Chidoriyama’s matches. Soon he has fourteen tabs open, headphones jammed over his ears and blanket cocooned around his torso. But that crawling feeling under his skin hasn’t dissipated, no matter that his eyes are beginning to burn and his ears are sore.

He feels around for his phone, dialing Iwaizumi on instinct, before he catches the time. Before he remembers that Iwaizumi’s probably tired because he’d led the team through two sets in a practice match against a powerhouse junior high.

Oikawa tosses his phone away a little harder than necessary, and repeats a shaky video of Chidoriyama’s match against Sendai Nika during the most recent athletics meet. He hugs his knees closer, eyes flicking to follow the plays across the court.

He sits there until he finally drifts off, headphones mashed uncomfortably between his head and the pillow. His laptop whirs itself off, plunging his room into darkness. When he next comes to, it’s to dawn peeking through his windows and the buzz of his phone.

 

 

Iwaizumi wakes up at 6am to his shoes _still_ on and three missed calls from Oikawa – two within half an hour of the text, and another, strangely, at 2am. He frowns as he sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

< _You called? I was asleep. Sorry._

He sets down his phone and stretches, feeling the soreness in his muscles. It hurts, but it’s a good pain, the mark of exertion and exercise and the capabilities of his body. His stomach grumbles and he grimaces. As quietly as he can, he changes into sweatpants and a shirt, and makes his way to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, he returns to his room with a leftover sandwich and an ice pack for a sore shoulder. To his surprise, his phone’s light is blinking.

He checks. It’s from Oikawa, who’s never awake any earlier than 11am on a Saturday.

> _you werent replying!!! the movie’s at 6 and you’re buying ramen AND popcorn_

Iwaizumi flops down with a groan. He’s not getting out of this one.

< _I’ll come over at 5_

He lays the ice pack over his shoulder as he settles back down in bed. It’s early in the morning but he doesn’t feel like going back to sleep just yet, so he looks around for something to do. A quick search around his bed reveals two textbooks and one of Oikawa’s comics. Good enough.

> _no it’s okay, i'll meet u at the cinema_

Iwaizumi frowns (what a common occurrence this is when Oikawa is involved).

< _Have a date beforehand? If you’re late I’m not waiting_

He finishes his sandwich and looks at the comic on his lap. It’s an old superhero one, something that involves aliens with lots of guns and a gushy heroine. Typical of Oikawa. Flipping it over, Iwaizumi doesn’t even remember anymore when his friend had brought it over or left it. Just like the Samurai Blue shirt hanging off the foot of his bed, or the old math tests in a drawer of Iwaizumi’s desk; just like the Gundam shirt Iwaizumi knows is hanging in Oikawa’s closet, and the copies of The Kan somewhere on Oikawa’s shelf.

His phone beeps.

> _jealous, iwa-chan?? don't worry, u know you’re my one and only love!!!_

There are six kissy emojis. Iwaizumi closes his eyes, exhaling one long-suffering breath. Oikawa follows up with a selfie on Snapchat, affecting a ridiculously exaggerated pout.

Iwaizumi tosses his phone aside and drapes an arm over his eyes. Why he’d let Oikawa convince him to get the app, he’ll never know.

(The Snapchat is a brief one, so Iwaizumi doesn’t notice the tired look in Oikawa’s eyes, nor how red they are. Not that Oikawa would have answered if he’d asked, anyway.)

 

 

Iwaizumi shows up at the cinema at 5:10pm, slightly dazed from having woken up so early in the morning (he’d fallen back asleep, but fitfully, and in the end had just played video games in the time leading up to the movie). True to his word, Oikawa is standing in front of the ticket counters, frowning at his phone. He’s wearing his glasses.

Oikawa looks up just as Iwaizumi starts walking towards him. “You’re late,” he says, annoyed and pouting, shoving his phone into his pocket. “I want MnMs.”

Iwaizumi pokes him on the forehead. “Stop demanding food every time you feel I’ve done something wrong.”

“Would you rather give me a kiss?” Oikawa shoots back, batting his eyelashes with a simpering smile.

Iwaizumi grimaces and brushes past his friend. “ _One_ pack,” he grumbles.

The whole time they buy their tickets and snacks, Oikawa’s grin reeks of self-satisfaction.

 

The movie is as confusing as Iwaizumi imagined, especially since he remembers nothing from the previous installments. Oikawa, however, is entranced, leaning forward eagerly in his seat as he consumes most of the popcorn meant for them both. Iwaizumi shakes his head and leans back, eyes hurting slightly from all the flashes and flares on-screen. He watches their reflections in Oikawa’s glasses instead.

As the climax draws near, Oikawa turns to his friend excitedly, only to find Iwaizumi has dozed off. With a soft smile, Oikawa shifts his friend to a slightly more comfortable position and drapes his jacket over him. He leans back, and as Iwaizumi droops further, finally ending up on his shoulder, Oikawa simply keeps still and continues to watch.

If Iwaizumi drools a little, and if Oikawa sneaks a photo, well, his friend doesn’t need to know. (Not until Oikawa uses it to embarrass him, that is.)

 

When the credits are rolling and the cinema lights come on, Oikawa gently shakes his friend awake. Iwaizumi rouses slowly, blinking in the sudden brightness.

“Damn,” he says through a yawn. “I slept through it? Sorry.”

“You were tired,” Oikawa says matter-of-factly, standing up and dusting himself off. “I’m taking an extra serving of chashu in my ramen.” He grins down widely at Iwaizumi, who bristles for a few seconds before grumpily relenting.

“Was it good?” he asks, a little sheepish, as they make their way out of the cinema.

Oikawa’s whole face lights up and Iwaizumi braces himself for an over-enthusiastic, jumbled retelling of the _entire plot of the movie,_ but he figures he can’t complain given that he’d slept through half of it. Their shoulders brush as they walk to their favorite ramen shop, with Oikawa chattering animatedly the whole way over.

And throughout the whole meal. To make things worse, he gestures with his chopsticks a lot. When Iwaizumi gets hit in the face with a flying slice of carrot, he figures he’s suffered enough.

“ _Thank_ you,” he says pointedly, reaching across and shoving Oikawa’s arm back down. His friend pouts. Iwaizumi relents (he always does, he always will). “We can just watch it again when it comes out on DVD.”

Big mistake. Oikawa’s manic smile returns. “Of course we will, Iwa-chan. But before that, we’ll have to catch you up with the original trilogy, and then the prequels, since you need to know what happens there before you watch this one.”

Iwaizumi groans. Sometimes being friends with Oikawa takes more effort than it’s worth.

Satisfied, Oikawa hums. His jacket sleeve hitches up slightly as he reaches for the pickled radish. Something yellowish and blotchy peeks out from underneath and Iwaizumi frowns, but before he can get a closer look, Oikawa has pulled his arm back.

It could have been his imagination. It could have been nothing. Iwaizumi hesitates, then returns to his ramen, as Oikawa resumes his long-winded analysis of the protagonist’s motivations and his theories about the upcoming sequel.

 

The next day is Sunday. Iwaizumi’s mom makes him bring over some homemade mochi to the Oikawa household, some for the family and some for Oikawa’s sister, Yukiko, to take when she leaves for Tokyo again. He messages Oikawa that he’s coming over and crosses the road, yelling at his mom that he’ll probably be back later. It’s mostly out of courtesy; everyone knows that if one of Iwaizumi or Oikawa goes to the other’s home, they’re not likely to be back until evening.

Yukiko is the one who answers the door.

“Hajime?” she asks in surprise, looking him up and down.

“S’up,” he says, trying to smile without looking like he’s bracing himself. Oikawa’s sister is as overwhelming as Oikawa himself.

“Look at you!” she exclaims, pulling him inside and taking him by the shoulders. “You’re getting bigger than Tocchin. You’ll probably be taller than me when you get to high school.”

“Er… right.” Iwaizumi represses a snicker at the childish nickname she still uses for her little brother, no matter how much Oikawa objects. (And his friend is one to talk.) “I brought mochi,” he says, holding up the plastic container as a shield.

“From your mom?” Yukiko grabs the box excitedly and hurries off into the house. “Mom! Mochi! From Hajime!”

Their mother leans out from the kitchen, all smiles and grace. “Ah, Hajime-kun! So nice to see you. Yukiko, don’t make so much noise, it’s impolite.”

Yukiko ignores her mother, opening the container and peering inside. “Do we still have ItohKyuemon? I want tea with this.”

Oikawa Yukari shakes her head fondly as her daughter rummages around the kitchen. One look at her and it’s easy to see Oikawa in her – his mother conducts herself gracefully (the shamelessness and mischief comes from his father, however). She smooths out the non-existent wrinkles in her skirt and smiles at Iwaizumi. “Come in,” she says, taking him by the shoulders (much more gently than her daughter) and peering him over. “Tooru is out at the moment, but he should be home soon enough and you’re welcome to share the mochi and tea in the meantime.”

Ignoring the fact that the mochi had come from his own home, which has its own stash of tea, Iwaizumi frowns. “He’s out? He didn’t say anything to me.”

“Oh?” Oikawa’s mother raises her eyebrows. It’s rare that either of Iwaizumi or Oikawa does not know what the other is doing or where they are. “He left this morning after breakfast. Since he had training gear, I’d assumed he’d be with you.”

Iwaizumi’s frown deepens. Before he gets the chance to ask, Yukiko pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Are you joining? I’ve made some green tea, although there’s barley tea if you like…”

“No, thank you,” Iwaizumi replies politely, holding up his hands. “I should be getting back.”

“Tell your mother thank you for the mochi,” Yukari says graciously. “I’ll come over with something in return sometime this week.”

Yukiko is more exuberant as she sweeps him up in a hug and messes up his hair. “See you the next time I come home,” she says, grinning. She throws a careless wave over her shoulder as she heads back to the kitchen, the same gesture Oikawa uses in school.

“Thank you,” Iwaizumi says again, and departs. His hand lingers on the knob after he’s closed the door.

 

 

It’s Sunday, so the school gym is closed. Oikawa takes advantage of a lull in activities at the local court. The water bottles are lined up with military precision at the end line.

Their resolute upright positions piss him off.

When he’s forced to give up the court, Oikawa goes outside to practice tosses, bouncing the ball off the wall, trying to hit the markers he’s taped to the wall at different height intervals. He’s still not precise enough, and can’t quite get the timing.

“Tooru-chan!” One of the court staff pauses in surprise as she exits the side door, cigarette pack in hand. “What are you doing here?”

Oikawa doesn’t look away from the ball. “Practicing.”

The staff member frowns, uncertain. She wants to make him go home, but it feels difficult to interrupt his focus. It comes out as a compromise. “Don’t work yourself too hard. You’re still learning.”

“Mm.” The next toss catches awkwardly on his fingers, making the ball rebound and knock Oikawa on the head. It had been 14 straight tosses before the slip, but he doesn’t want to leave until he makes it 20.

After an hour, his sister comes to drag him home. His record for the day is 15.

 

 

< _Where are you? Your mom said you were out?_

< _Oi, Bakatooru, your sister’s going to eat all the mochi._

< _If you were going to practice a little, you could have asked me to join you._

An hour later, Iwaizumi rolls over in bed and looks at his phone. Still no reply from Oikawa. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but something hasn’t been sitting right with Iwaizumi for a while now. He’s about to return to his friend’s house to ask where he’s gone, but his phone buzzes.

> _sorry. went out. don't let nee-san eat all the mochi!!_

> _if she has i'll come over and eat yours_

Almost subconsciously, Iwaizumi breathes out a sigh of relief. He presses his face into the pillow for a few moments, then replies.

< _You’ll get fat_

He turns over and stares at the ceiling, closes his eyes. His phone buzzes again. This time it’s a Snap notification. Iwaizumi opens it and is greeted by the image of Oikawa sticking his tongue out, glaring at the camera.

> _mean iwa-chan!!! bully!!!_

The only thing surprising about Oikawa’s reply is the low number of exclamation points. But at least nothing seems to be wrong with his friend.

< _So, where were you? Your mom said training?_

He puts his phone down and goes back to looking at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark space decals, which Oikawa had made his father stick there when they’d been seven, are still there, although dusty and no longer glowing. Iwaizumi looks at them and tries to remember the constellations they’re supposed to be forming. The cut-out paper sun is a faded yellow in the corner.

He gets so lost in thought that he jumps when his mother calls him to dinner. He is halfway to the kitchen when he realizes Oikawa still hasn’t replied.

 

Iwaizumi catches him during training on Tuesday.

“You never replied,” he says, when they’ve partnered up for stretching drills. Oikawa’s sitting on the floor in a straddle as Iwaizumi pushes down on his back. His mind seems elsewhere, because he doesn’t reply at first.

“Oi.” Iwaizumi lifts a hand to whack Oikawa across the top of his head. _That_ gets his friend’s attention. “I said, you never replied to my message. Where’d you go?”

“Where’d I go when?” Oikawa replies, craning his neck around to raise his eyebrows questioningly.

“On Sunday.” Iwaizumi releases his friend to stand over him, arms crossed. “I went to drop off the mochi and you weren’t there.”

“Ah.” Oikawa concentrates on stretching out his hamstrings for a while, long enough that Iwaizumi doesn’t think he’ll get an answer and is about to ask again. Then, “the neighborhood team was having a match. I just dropped by.”

Iwaizumi blinks. “You didn’t tell me.” It’s an instinctive answer, but – well. It’s what they do, him and Oikawa; they tell each other things.

Oikawa stands, bending backwards to work a kink out of his back. He doesn’t meet his friend’s eyes. “I don’t have to tell you everything.”

The assistant coach blows the whistle to round them up, and Oikawa trots off. Iwaizumi watches his friend go, more than a little rankled. But he can’t exactly interrupt training to confront his friend, so he just huffs and jogs after him.

Oikawa is as he has always been in training: intent but playful. He’s well-versed in the art of adjusting his tosses to the spiker, now; he’s learned how best to enable each attack. Still, his best tosses are always to Iwaizumi, with a precision that is almost instinctive.

Iwaizumi thinks Oikawa is doing perfectly fine; they’re third years, captain and vice-captain, and reliable to a fault. They both have plenty of room for improvement, too, and a long way to get there. But they’ve come a long way, as well.

But Iwaizumi sees the look on his friend’s face whenever his toss is awry, whenever his serve misses, whenever the spike gets blocked, and knows: for Oikawa, this is not enough. Far from it.

 

 

Two months after Oikawa first stays behind by himself:

The ball smacks with a sharp sound against the floor as Oikawa sends another (imperfect, ill-aimed, _inadequate_ ) jump serve to the other side of the court. He grimaces, cursing silently in his head, as the water bottle he’s placed at the end line remains upright, mocking him. He snatches up another ball and aims, throws it up.

Before he completes his run-up, another body flies forward and knocks the ball out of the air. Oikawa stumbles, missteps, and nearly twists his ankle as he falls down.

“What the—”

Iwaizumi is glaring down at him, arms crossed.

“Iwa-chan, what – that serve had a good feel to it, I _know_ it!”

“It’s been two and a half hours since training ended.” Iwaizumi doesn’t move, doesn’t offer Oikawa a hand or anything. “Why are you still here?”

Oikawa grins sheepishly. “Has it been?” he asks, feigning innocence and standing up without meeting Iwaizumi’s eyes. “Must have lost track of time. Were you waiting? I’m sorry, Iwa-chan, but you can go home ahead. I’m almost done here—”

Iwaizumi cuts Oikawa off before he can finish his excuse.

“You’re overworking yourself. Coach warned you about that just yesterday.”

His friend has about a second before Iwaizumi kicks him in the back.

“There’s no point in all this if you get injured, moron.” Iwaizumi has Oikawa by the front of his shirt, dragging him from the court. His concern only heightens when his friend simply shuffles along behind him, head hung down in exhaustion.

“We’re going home, _Trashykawa,_ pack up.”

“Iwa-chan—”

“I said _pack up._ ” The tone of Iwaizumi’s voice and the look in his eyes brooks no arguments. Oikawa’s mouth snaps shut.

(They are eight years old again. Iwaizumi is waiting for him to put on his uniform. Iwaizumi has always made sure he’s okay.)

They walk together in silence. Halfway down the now-familiar route, Iwaizumi elbows Oikawa in the ribs, hard.

“ _Ow,_ Iwa-chan—”

“Bakatooru,” Iwaizumi mutters, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and brushing past Oikawa. He’s grumbling under his breath but his eyes betray the concern he really feels.

Oikawa’s shoulders sag in relief, and he smiles.

 

 

Oikawa goes home with Iwaizumi after the next three training sessions, and the anxiety eases inside Iwaizumi’s chest. One time, they stop by the arcade, where Oikawa absolutely grasses Iwaizumi’s ass at air hockey but Iwaizumi gets back at him in the racing games. Between the two of them, they win enough tickets for a small plushie, one of those ridiculous childish characters, which Oikawa declares he will keep on his bed forever and ever.

“It’ll disappear into the mess of your room in a week,” Iwaizumi comments with amusement as Oikawa places the toy carefully into his bag.

“What? Of course not.” Oikawa looks genuinely offended by the suggestion.

“Do you remember where your Totoro toy is?”

“Ye…s,” Oikawa replies, unconvincingly. At the sight of Iwaizumi’s smug expression, he flushes. “This is different!”

“Oh?” Iwaizumi laughs as he darts away from his friend’s swatting hand. “Different from your Pokémon cards?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Oikawa hisses indignantly. He slings on his backpack and straightens with all the haughtiness he can muster. “This is _special._ We won it together.”

Something about Oikawa’s conviction makes Iwaizumi pause a little, uncertain of how to reply. Thankfully, he’s saved from having to do so because Oikawa spots the DDR machine and immediately drags his friend over. Iwaizumi hates this game, because yes he has good coordination, but he can’t follow a beat worth a damn, and Oikawa cheats something awful. Oikawa is also a much better dancer, and he plays this game like he does everything else: by throwing himself into it completely. He makes stupid hand gestures, throws back his head, even sings along (badly). A small crowd draws around them, but with Iwaizumi unable to keep up, their game ends at round two. Iwaizumi drops down, defeated, while Oikawa turns to lightly flirt with the female fans.

Iwaizumi looks up and sees Oikawa in a halo of cheap fluorescent lighting, the sheen of sweat on his cheeks and hair matted to his temples. There’s a hint of mischief in his eyes and a teasing quirk to his lips.

Iwaizumi wonders how he hasn’t been blinded yet by this insufferable idiot.

 

Oikawa later sends him a selfie on Snapchat, fingers in a peace sign and one eye closed in a wink. The tiny egg character they’d won at the arcade is in the background, perched at the foot of Oikawa’s bedside lamp, surrounded by snack wrappers.

> _see?_

Iwaizumi chuckles and sends a reply through text (hell will freeze over before he takes a selfie).

< _That’ll be gone in a week_

Oikawa’s reply is a screen full of emojis.

> _you meanie!!!! this is a treasure, T.Y.V.M._

It takes Iwaizumi a few moments to decipher what “T.Y.V.M.” could possibly mean. He decides that means he’s had enough for the day, and goes to clean up for bed. His smile still lingers as he falls asleep.

 

The summer junior athletic tournament is coming up, and their training has become more intensive. The coach mentions a camp, which devolves into talk of playing and going to the beach. Oikawa has been doubling down in practice, working with such steely determination that their coach is duly impressed. Jump and set, jump and spike, jump and serve – Oikawa is always in motion, even when he’s just watching. Iwaizumi can see the way his friend’s eyes follow the movements of all their other players: how high they jump, how fast they run up, how well they receive.

Oikawa at school and Oikawa at practice could not be more different. In class he is playful and teasing, winking at different girls each day and showing off. His breaks are spent lounging on the grounds outside their building, napping under a tree or playing with their friends. Sometimes he and Iwaizumi will escape to the roof, where Oikawa rests his head on Iwaizumi’s thigh as he plays a video game and Iwaizumi reads notes. They’ve been late too often for Iwaizumi’s liking, because Oikawa will doze off and refuse to get up. (Oikawa simply sweet-talks their teachers every time; Iwaizumi apologizes profusely.)

Iwaizumi contrasts Oikawa today during the break – when he’d had to endure his friend receive several new parcels from girls (“all the better to fatten you up”, “TAKE THAT BACK, IWA-CHAN”) – with Oikawa in training right now, panting and drenched, the skin on his forearms pink and stinging. Which, of course, means Iwaizumi doesn’t notice the ball hurtling his way until it nails him right in the side of the head.

He turns, pissed off and ready to _kill_ Oikawa, but finds Hanamaki behind him, grinning impishly. Iwaizumi dials it down just a little when he chucks the ball back at his teammate.

“You’re up for spiking drills, idiot,” Hanamaki yells, snickering as he dodges the blow and runs back to the service line. Iwaizumi shakes his head and sprints after him, muttering a hasty apology to the coach as he passes by. He looks over at Oikawa, who hasn’t even noticed the interruption and is bouncing a ball, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The first years go for ball boy duty. Iwaizumi hates to admit it, but he feels more at ease when Kageyama isn’t standing on the court as the other setter. These days, Oikawa feels more and more like a marionette that’s been wound up too tight. It’s obvious in the little slips he makes in practice, a missed toss here and a bad serve there.

At the back of the line, Iwaizumi notices their coach surveying the court with interest. He doesn’t like the look on the man’s face.

“Kageyama,” Coach Tainaka calls. By the net, still holding the ball for the next toss, Oikawa freezes.

The freshman trots over dutifully, looking a little confused. A hush has fallen over the third years, though no one seems to have noticed.

“Try joining Oikawa for a bit,” their coach says, gesturing Kageyama to the net.

As their kouhai makes his way uncertainly to the rest of the team, Oikawa stands rooted to his spot, watching Kageyama almost dazedly. He has the ball in a death grip, the only indication of his displeasure. Mechanically, he steps to the side to make way for another spike path. The team awkwardly breaks up into two groups.

The whistle shrieks through the air, and everyone starts moving again.

Oikawa has his back to Kageyama, focused resolutely on his tosses. But Iwaizumi can see the hard line of his friend’s shoulders, the set of his jaw, and he knows.

When it’s his turn to spike, the set is perfect. His straight hits down the line, sharp and strong. Then he turns to Oikawa and jabs him in the gut.

“OW – Iwa-chan—!”

“ _Nice toss,_ ” he growls. Then he stomps off back to the end of the line, because really, Oikawa is such an idiot.

 

Training goes on and somewhere in the drills, Iwaizumi forgets what happened. Afterwards, in the locker, he’s rolling his eyes as Hanamaki and Matsukawa chatter loudly about going to the arcade and the bowling alley next. Iwaizumi is tired and just wants a shower and dinner, please and thank you, but Oikawa _lives_ for social situations where he can bask in adulation. It’s no surprise that when Iwaizumi finishes getting ready to leave, Oikawa sidles up to him with puppy eyes.

“Iwa-chaaaaan,” he says sweetly, batting his eyelashes. Iwaizumi grimaces and backs away before Oikawa can get too close.

“You go,” he says shortly, wrinkling his nose. Oikawa’s eyes light up and Iwaizumi puts on his best poker face. “I’d rather not be subjected to a few hours of you making an idiot out of yourself as—”

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa clutches his chest in mock-indignation. But he grins and winks. “Don’t worry, I won’t cheat on you.”

Iwaizumi can’t even bring himself to hit Oikawa. He just rolls his eyes and heads for the doors, while Oikawa prances back to their classmates. It’s (still) a bit odd, walking back alone, but Iwaizumi just pulls up some music. It’s not quite the same noise, but it’ll do.

 

(He doesn’t see the expression that flashes across Oikawa’s face as he leaves, doesn’t see how after the door has closed behind him, Oikawa turns to their friends and smiles apologetically. Doesn’t think there is anything else to this.)

 

“Hajime!”

Startled, Iwaizumi looks up from his textbooks, blinking the imprints of numerical equations from his eyes. Poking his head out his door, he finds his mother on the stairs. “I’ve been calling you! I need you to go to the convenience store and get some soy sauce, we’re all out.”

Iwaizumi bites his lip, feeling guilty that he hadn’t been paying attention. He grabs his jacket immediately, running down and apologizing. His mother waves it off, smiling gently, before handing him the money and disappearing back into the kitchen. Iwaizumi stuffs it into his pocket as he shoves his feet into his shoes, then steps outside. Even in a jacket, the Tuesday night is chilly. He crosses his arms for some warmth as he heads for the shop a few blocks away.

To his surprise, Hanamaki and Matsukawa exit with several other people, all chatting loudly as they pass around some snacks and drinks from plastic bags. Iwaizumi looks around for Oikawa, expecting his friend to be surrounded by a gaggle of girls. But he’s not there, and they’re out of earshot before Iwaizumi can call over to them and ask. He frowns, waiting to see if maybe Oikawa will emerge later, as the wind blows and a pair of schoolgirls look at him funnily as they pass him by. Iwaizumi pays them no mind.

Oikawa has… lied to him.

( _Don’t worry, I won’t cheat on you._ But Iwaizumi doesn’t care about that. Oikawa’s an annoying ponce when he’s out and preening, but it’s never truly bothered Iwaizumi. And Oikawa has lied before, small white ones like _I didn’t lose your cap_ and _Yes I’ll take care of your Pokémon cartridge,_ but. Iwaizumi isn’t sure if he’s angry but he does know he’s _worried._ )

He almost forgets the soy sauce.

When Iwaizumi gets to his house, he looks across the street. To his surprise, the light in Oikawa’s window is on, though he can’t see anyone moving around. He considers heading over, asking if Oikawa’s home, confronting his friend.

He brings his mother the soy sauce instead.

 

 

At the school gym, Oikawa takes a deep breath, focusing on the ball in his hands. Before anything else, he needs to get his serve toss up to scratch; it’s still inconsistent and a bit too far ahead. And then there’s tossing practice; he wants to make it thirty straight this time.

Arm out, ball up. Oikawa grits his teeth; he knows immediately this serve toss is awry, _again._ As he runs up, the ball doesn’t sync with his hand and the serve doesn’t clear the net.

He’s seething as he turns back to get another ball.

There’s a thin veneer of guilt over his frustration. He hasn’t technically lied, but even deliberately misleading Iwaizumi feels wrong. But his friend is improving quickly as the days go by; he jumps a little higher now, and his hits will keep getting more precise, more powerful. Oikawa refuses to be left behind.

They’re at a powerhouse junior high. Their teammates are strong. The summer athletics meet is in a few weeks. He doesn’t want to have nothing to show for it.

They’re going to be at a champion school someday, and Iwaizumi will be the ace, and Oikawa will be right there beside him with the best toss. He’ll make sure of it.

 

 

Oikawa is his normal self at school the next day. They go to class, they go to training. Once, Oikawa has to stay late for class clean-up duty, but otherwise they go home together. Their conversations are trivial as they walk. Iwaizumi isn’t sure who’s not meeting the other’s eyes.

On Wednesday, Oikawa stays late again after training. Iwaizumi doesn’t protest, although he does linger at the gym door before leaving. His friend is practicing jump serves again, water bottles lined up on the opposite end of the court.

Oikawa doesn’t look his way as he leaves.

 

 

One and a half hours later and Oikawa slams a ball to the floor in frustration. His calves are burning, his wrist is sore; he wants to cry.

Biting down on his lip, he picks up another ball, but after a few moments lets it drop. It’s Wednesday, and he’s tired.

He buys a strawberry milk on the way home. Almost instinctively, he starts to get an Aqua before remembering Iwaizumi isn’t with him this time either.

The silence nags at him all the way home.

 

They have their last practice match before the summer tournament against Sendai Nika. It’s Friday; there’s two weeks to go. Oikawa is obviously tired, obviously rattled. He looks like he hasn’t slept (and he hasn’t).

It hurts to watch: Oikawa will fumble a set, which disrupts the whole attack. The spiker will miss, or be blocked, and it only makes Oikawa even more flustered. He sets too fast, or too high; his serves hit the net more than not. When he misses his toss to even Iwaizumi, their coach as had enough.

“Kageyama.” It’s everything he’s been dreading, and it’s entirely his fault. Oikawa can only stare in horror as Coach Tainaka beckons the freshman over and signals for a substitution.

He walks off the court in a daze; it feels like a dream, or like he’s underwater. He watches as Kageyama settles into the team. His first set is to Iwaizumi.

It hurts to watch. If he’s not good enough to keep ahead of Kageyama, he’s not good enough to break through Shiratorizawa and their overwhelming strength. If he loses here, he won’t go any further. He needs to be better, to be _more_ than this.

He needs to beat Shiratorizawa, and _win,_ and keep standing on the court.

 

 

Kitagawa Daiichi win the practice match. Kageyama plays one and a half sets out of two. His tosses barely miss.

Oikawa stays late after this, too.

Iwaizumi hesitates at the door for three whole minutes before he decides to stay as well.

 

Kageyama may be a prodigy on the court, but the way he approaches Oikawa after the practice match borders on stupidity. When he asks, bright smile and hopeful eyes, if Oikawa will teach him to serve, there is a ripple of cold in the air that morphs into fright as it runs up Iwaizumi’s spine. Oikawa looks at Kageyama, looks and breathes and suddenly his fist is pulled back, his arm bent in tension and fury.

Iwaizumi stops him, just barely.

(For a moment, he’s afraid Oikawa will punch him, too.)

He sends Kageyama on his way.

 

 

“We swapped you out today to give you a chance to cool your head. Give yourself some credit!”

It’s not like he doesn’t understand Iwaizumi’s words, because he does. But _credit?_ What credit? What can he give himself when he’s just performed so badly he’d had to be substituted with a junior, and a _freshman_ at that? What could he possibly credit to himself when – “I’m not good enough to beat Shiratorizawa?”

(How many times now, how many losses. It’s starting to feel like he’ll always come up short.)

_I want to win and go to Nationals. To win, I have to work harder._ A mantra in his head, a never-ending loop that pushes him to stay longer, do more, just a little more and he’ll carry his team there.

And then Iwaizumi headbutts him so hard his nose bleeds.

“Do you think you’re playing all by yourself?” his friend yells, as Oikawa sits there in shock and _looks_ at him. “If you believe that _your_ performance equals team performance, I’m gonna belt you one!”

“You already did!” Oikawa retorts, pained and horrified and bewildered.

And then.

“No one on our team can take on Ushiwaka one on one, but there are six people on the court!” Iwaizumi bites out. His grip on the front of Oikawa’s shirt is so tight it might tear through; the way he glares at Oikawa would make anyone else quail. But Oikawa looks at Iwaizumi and feels like something’s been lifted.

“I don’t care if we’re against a first-year prodigy or Ushiwaka,” Iwaizumi continues, and each word feels like it’s prying a vice from around Oikawa’s throat. _“With six, the strong become even stronger, you moron.”_

It should have been so obvious, should have been what Oikawa had clung on to all this while. So simple, so easily forgotten: he is not alone on the court.

_With six, the strong become even stronger._

Oikawa actually laughs.

“Did I headbutt you too hard?” Iwaizumi asks, confused concerned. It doesn’t matter. Oikawa stands up and feels the constellations in his fingertips again, the galaxies in his lungs.

“It’s like… I can’t even describe this.” His hands flex at his sides. He feels like a supernova. “I just suddenly feel invincible.”

He feels like the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter up hopefully soon, but I wanted to at least get the first one up in time for Iwa-chan's birthday. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Feel free to hit me up on my Twitter at [@okw_tr](https://twitter.com/okw_tr) and tumblr at [yurochkas](https://yurochkas.tumblr.com)!! I have my ko-fi there if you'd like to leave a tip ^u^


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